


It’s Love You Bring

by Lauren_StDavid



Series: Beechwood Shorts [5]
Category: The Monkees, The Monkees (TV)
Genre: Explicit Sexual Content, First Thanksgiving Together, Ice Play, M/M, Mild S&M, Schmoop, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-03
Updated: 2018-12-03
Packaged: 2021-02-07 04:04:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,411
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21451735
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lauren_StDavid/pseuds/Lauren_StDavid
Summary: There's a joke in this that might only be understandable to British people or people from the Commonwealth. That being so, it could be helpful to read this first:https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/St_Michael_(brand)It's not important, of course.
Relationships: Mike Nesmith/Peter Tork
Series: Beechwood Shorts [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1542475
Comments: 13
Kudos: 4





	It’s Love You Bring

**Author's Note:**

  * For [70mtt](https://archiveofourown.org/users/70mtt/gifts).

> There's a joke in this that might only be understandable to British people or people from the Commonwealth. That being so, it could be helpful to read this first:  
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/St_Michael_(brand)
> 
> It's not important, of course.

“So, you agree that if we all pitch in, it’ll all be fine, right?”

“What the f— _Toby?_” Mike yelped, sliding from on top of Peter and making sure the sheet covered them both. Stopped from before he’d even _started_ enjoying Peter, he glared at their blonde neighbor, currently an uninvited guest in their bedroom. At the side of their bed. Oh, no, perched _on_ their bed, as though she was sitting at a table in the Vincent Van Go-Go.

“So that’s agreed?” their neighbor insisted.

“Toby…” Mike let out as much breath as he could in one sigh. It sounded like a tire deflating in the morning bedroom air. He didn’t need to turn his head to Peter to know he was glancing down at something that was not deflated, despite the unwelcome interruption. Which reminded him— “Toby, you often have conversations when the other parties aren’t actually present?”

“Yes.” Her answer was immediate. “It saves having to repeat things, you know?”

“Let it go,” murmured Peter when Mike opened his mouth to protest that. “You don’t have to return every salvo.”

Mike struggled to a sitting position, tricky though it was when Toby’s weight pinned the sheet down, trapping him, and switched tacks. “How did you even get in here?” He thought Toby probably had a key to the front door, but their bedroom? No. _And_ he’d made sure to lock that behind him.

“Amanda showed me how to pick locks,” Toby informed him. “And she gave me this.” She fished out a small metal rod from inside her shirt. She tended to use the cups of her bra as an extra pocket, finding herself surprised and sometimes screaming when things she’d forgotten about made their presence known hours later.

“May I see that?” Mike pointed at the tool, to avoid any misunderstanding, and Toby handed it over. He took it and threw it out of the window. That should keep them safe.

“Amanda designed the prototype and Micky made some up for her,” Toby continued. “They’re trying to get it patented.” She pointed at their bare torsos, her gaze rapt. “Peter, you’re very freckled, and Mike, I didn’t realize you were so hairy.”

“You’ve seen us in swim trunks on the beach hundreds of times,” Peter answered.

“Yes, but you seem more naked in here, you know? Wait, why are you in bed with Peter?” Toby demanded of Mike.

Mike risked a sidelong peep at Peter. _Ah._ “Well—”

“When it’s your turn to make breakfast?” she continued.

_Too soon for another sigh._ “I left an arrow pointing at the loaf of bread, and brought a thermos of coffee and some cookies back up here.” To Peter. Sexy, sleepy and sleep-snuffly Peter, lying there all warm and waiting and wanton and willing and—

“An arrow pointing…” Peter mused, fighting the tilt to his lips. He sat up too.

Yeah, Mike shouldn’t have dwelled on the image of Peter, naked and sprawled in bed, just ripe for Mike to— _God damn it._ He looked for something in addition to the sheet to cover up the fact that his erect cock was pitching a tent in it and scowled when Peter, helpful, innocent-eyed Peter, passed him his wool hat from the bedpost. He batted it away. “Don’t you fucken dare. We ain’t playing no damn ring toss here and sure as hell not with _that_ as a stick!”

He hoped Peter knew his, erm, pre_dic_ament, was all Peter’s doing and nothing to do with Toby. Toby, who was still sitting and staring.

“Amanda told me you were together,” she said. “And that she didn’t think I understood?”

“What in the world would make her think that?” Mike deadpanned.

“So she drew me a picture,” Toby continued. “Oh, not detailed. Just two stick men. One with an off-center belt and one with a knitted hat, for some reason. But I think the drawing was wrong? You were slow dancing, or doing jiu-jitsu or something, and had an extra limb each?”

Mike closed his eyes.

“Maybe she’s…not very good at drawing,” Peter suggested.

“Or counting,” Toby agreed. “Well, Math is hard.”

Mike opened his eyes. “So, if that’s all?” _Worth a try…_

“Oh, thanks.” Toby took the thermos from Mike’s bedside table and unscrewed the lid to pour herself a coffee. She swallowed an appreciative gulp. “Umm. Nice and strong.”

“If there’s nothing else there?” Mike was persistent. He took the cup back from Toby and set it down again.

“Actually, I have a question?” Peter raised his hand, making the sheet barely covering him slip a little farther. “Toby, why are you wearing Davy’s shirt?”

“What?” She looked down at herself. “I’m not. This is my brother’s.”

“No, it’s Davy’s,” Peter insisted. “He’s been looking for it for a while. It’s his getting lucky shirt.”

Mike’s “Don’t you mean his _lucky_ shirt?” bounced against Toby’s, “I found it on my brother’s bedroom floor.”

Mike’s aghast, “_What?_” knocked into Peter’s, “_Ah._”

“So it can’t be Davy’s,” Toby said into the booming silence.

“Look at the label. I know it’s Davy’s, because it’s from an English store, Marks & Spencer,” Peter insisted.

Toby yanked the collar around and twisted her neck to squint inside. “St Michael,” she read. “Oh, it’s yours, Mike?”

Peter’s restraining hand on the edge of Mike’s pillow stopped him from whipping it out from behind him and pulling it over his face to pretend he’d vanished.

Peter reached across Mike to take the plastic lid of the flask and gulp down some coffee and Mike enjoyed the brief press and stroke of Peter’s arm against his chest. “Maybe start at the beginning?” Peter invited Toby, which made Mike pour more coffee, this one for himself. They’d need a gallon of it, and a lot stronger and blacker for that, he reckoned.

“At the start of what you were saying when you walked in the pad today,” Peter clarified.

“I was checking you’re not going home for Thanksgiving this year, Peter?” Toby replied, making Mike gape open-mouthed at Peter and kinda wanna ask him for a signed photo. That was some feat!

“No, I am not. Not until my father is no longer a willing tool of the establishment, working to perpetuate an outmoded status quo,” Peter said, scowling.

“And you’re not going home, either, Mike?”

“I’m not going back to Texas until—” _I can take Peter with me by my side as my partner._ “For a while,” he finished, offering Peter a smile in thanks for stroking his knee in support.

“You remember how last year my parents were here in Beechwood for Thanksgiving?”

Mike was pleasantly surprised that Toby’s topic of conversation was at least topical and relevant: the celebration was right around the corner.

“Yeah, my father came here in hiding from my granny and grandpa. And Gramma and Grampop, too, but that was just a bonus. Father doesn’t really like crowds of people or celebrating special occasions, or kids,” she went on.

“What does he do for a living?” Mike wondered.

“He’s an executive at Disneyland.”

“Right. The happiest place of earth. Full of bustling crowds celebrating happy occasions, mostly with children. Makes perfect sense.” Mike shook his head. Toby reached out a hand in between him and Peter, and Mike whacked a heavy fist down onto the sheet, preventing her from pulling it down. “So, Thanksgiving, not going home…” He tried to jostle her along. “Any other reason you wanted to speak to us? And that was so urgent ya hadda burst in here when—” _We were about to go at it?_

“Well, duh.” Toby looked affronted. “So, you know that German thing with the beans?”

Mike looked at Peter, the pad’s resident German things expert, who looked back at him, his face a blank. “How does that connect to why you’re here?” Mike tried.

“Well, the German couple at 1221?”

“Sr. and Sra. Ferreira? The Portuguese couple?” Peter queried. “Oh, you mean that cake, Bolo-Rei?”

“King cake?” Mike translated.

“Uh-huh. All raisins, nuts, and crystallized fruit, and a fava bean baked in it. Whoever gets the slice with the bean in has to buy the next cake, next year. Or…”

“In this case, host the next Thanksgiving dinner, the next year.” Mike started to get it, could feel the dawn lightening. And kinda wanted to put dark glasses on in response.

“My father got the bean, meaning he’s hosting the party…meaning he’s not coming. He’s taken Mom somewhere else,” Toby stated. “And I can’t go join them.”

“Why?” Mike knew, just knew, he’d regret asking.

“They haven’t told me where they’re going.”

_Knew it. _

“So, anyway, and but, or also, the dinner at the Willis house didn’t get cancelled.” Toby looked at them, her face one big _so there you have it_.

“Toby!” Mike cried. “That’s _your_ house now—you had an entire _year_ to cancel the party!”

“Look, anyone can be wise after the event, Mike. And it’s actually okay—my father says can we take pics for the corporate magazine of a happy Willis family occasion? It’s kind of a theme, in all their promo stuff. I know—” She held up a hand. “The marketing people said they’ll splice him and Mom into a picture of a joyful family celebration. It’s the only way they’ll get one. Seems every real one they have of a special holiday is just him yelling at someone. Mainly me, or my brother, but, like, sometimes a neighbor’s kid or occasionally a random person under thirty.”

“Your dad…sure likes to shout at the younger generation,” Mike said, eventually.

“So it’s all agreed?” Toby stood, slithering the sheet down a little with her as she did so.

Mike grabbed it. “What is?”

“That you’ll all help me organize and host this year’s Beechwood Thanksgiving dinner!” Toby called over her shoulder, already out of the door.

“No way!” Mike yelled after her. “No. No. No way will I ever agree to host a huge, chaotic Thanksgiving party for the entire street! Ever! No—”

***

“Woah.” A few days later, Peter revolved in a slow spin, taking in the long room, waving at Mike’s scowl reflected back at them by the various surfaces. “The Willises’ kitchen is groovy. So big and shiny.”

“Why, it’s just a simple li’l ol’ beach house,” Mike answered, sourly, still not knowing how he’d been forced into this.

“Simple beach _villa_ more like.” Peter peered out at the view from the two window walls.

“Simple huge beachfront property, ya ask me.” Mike folded his arms.

“Well, I guess they kept in simple with the beachy shades they used for the appliances and countertops,” Peter suggested.

“Yeah, I see all the turquoise and blue… What I don’t see is any signs of prep for the big meal folks’ll soon be arriving for.”

“In the oven?” Peter suggested, opening a metal door. “No, that’s the icebox. This one? No—freezer. Down there? Oh, dishwater. This…is a washer. And this…a dryer. Oh, must be this cabinet thing. Nope, wrong again.” He shut the door on the garbage bins’ hidey-hole.

“Davy should know his way about here. For one reason or another,” Mike said, sniggering a little. “Didn’t you ask him, babe?”

“He’s been keeping a low profile, recently, but I did and all he told me was to watch out for the Gobbler.” Peter turned from his poking around in the sink to Mike. “Now I’m wondering…if that’s his name for Toby’s twin brother?”

‘“Not identical twins, though,’” Mike quoted, imitating Toby. ‘“He’s left-handed.’ _Gobbler?_ I wonder what—”

“_Michael!_” Peter squealed, struggling against the pull of the mechanism that had him.

“_Babe!_” Mike slammed his hand down, stopping the motion and noise of the waste disposal unit and snatching up a pair of kitchen scissors to cut Peter’s tie free from its clutches. “Watch out! Seems this place done got armed response against us dang youths.”

He helped Peter sit on a stool at the long counter against the window. “Let’s think. We shouldn’t have to do much, right? There was a sign-up sheet for people to bring food…and didn’t Toby say that all the stuff the Willises have to supply was ordered from a caterer or catering organization or something?”

‘“Was ordered’… You know, the passive is such a scary aspect of language,” Peter mused. “_Who_ ordered?”

“Well, Toby, I guess. She thinks she did it straightaway, last year, on the same day, so she wouldn’t forget.” Mike spoke slowly. He went to rummage in drawers and found a binder.

“On the same day? When she’d been slamming back those Pumpkin Pie Shooters that Mrs. Weavers made? And the Cider Sidecars her father brought? And the Cranberry Sauce Gin and Tonics Mrs. P mixed?” Peter drew a breath. “I’m getting hysterical. How hard could it be to call up a caterer?”

“Actually, to send stuff off to a…party planner.” Mike showed Peter the pages he’d found, the leaflets and brochures.

“Oh, well, it’s easy enough to get in touch with a firm and order a few bits and pieces for a festive holiday. Even Toby—”

“Toby and Nyles.”

“What?” Peter bent to see. “And by the way, those are the three scariest words in the English language.”

“This list of suggestions is in Nyles’ handwriting.” Mike traced it with a finger. “Seems he was helping her? And he brought the Mashed Potato Vodka…”

“Yes, but they’re only suggestions. And ones no catering organization could accommodate. ‘Balloon ride over Santa Monica while seated in the comfort of your most righteous armchair’? ‘Voyage into the stratosphere on a space rocket with a whole bunch of cool cats’?” Peter read, scoffing. “Does that space case’s entire life revolve around ways to get high?”

“_What?_” Mike gasped.

“_What?_” Peter echoed, catching up with what he’d just said. “Oh wow. Who am I?”

“Babe, you’re Mr. Willis. Maybe he haunts this kitchen.” Mike stroked Peter’s face and gave him a quick kiss. “Still love ya, though.”

“Thanks. And look, it’s still just a matter of selecting a suitable company for the kind of party you’re giving and checking off the options from a list for the sort of stuff that goes with it. What could go wrong in that?”

“_Mike! Peter!_” Micky’s face, peering at an angle around the door, shone with joy. “The team from Fun Fun Fun Unlimited is here with the bouncy castle!”

“Ya had to jinx it, didn’t ya, shotgun.” Mike let his head _thunk_ onto the counter.

“Mike! Peter! They wanna know where to put the bubble machine!” Micky cried.

“I…can think of a few places.” Mike made a sharp turn to the little alcove off the kitchen.

“Michael? There’s only the wine storage racks through there!” Peter called.

“I know, shotgun. Oh, believe me I know,” Mike answered, a man on a mission. A Mateus mission.

Only one person was scared of the clown—and Dr. Mann was there to administer first aid—the alpacas from the mobile petting zoo only bit two guests, and they only lost three people on the neighborhod scavenger hunt, so all in all, Mike reckoned, Beechwood had a lot to be thankful for…

***

Hours later, the guests finally gone and Mike and Peter in sole possession of the place, Peter leaned back against the closed door. The _closed_ bedroom door. “And this isn’t Toby’s brother’s room?” he asked, raking the floor with his gaze.

“Nope. Guest suite.” Mike finished switching on lamps for the moodiest of lighting and gently brushed Peter aside.

“Whatcha doing?”

“Checking this door is locked _and_ the combination set.” Mike spun the lock’s dial, securing them in. Alone.

“Mr. Willis likes gadgets,” mused Peter. “I bet he’s thankful for inventors. So.” He took Mike’s hand. “Are you thankful you came?”

Mike smirked. “I didn’t yet, babe. C’m here.”

“Nuh-huh.” Peter shook his head. “I’m in charge.”

“Says who?”

“You get to call the shots in the pad—yes; you do—and me when we’re away. That’s how it works.”

“Huh. Did you have this conversation when I wasn’t around?” Mike wondered. “Because I don’t recall that agreement.”

“Fine!” Peter flounced a few steps. He was being bratty. Which was…interesting. “So, what, we’ll choose fingers for it?”

“Sure.” Mike called even, for a change, and stuck out his entire hand, to Peter’s lone finger. “Seems it’s me, kid. And don’t think I didn’t notice just which finger that was.” He pulled an overstuffed armchair out into the middle of the room and sat, loosening his tie then slipping it free. “And I want a blow job. A real good one too.” He patted the floor at his feet, watching Peter make a show of assuming the position.

“Real good, huh?” Peter imitated him, now kneeling and looking up through his bangs. “Like, long and slow as molasses?”

“No…” Mike bent to whisper the rest into Peter’s ear. “I want it hard and nasty.” And while Peter was still reacting to that, his eyes popping open, Mike twisted and used his tie to fasten Peter’s wrists behind his back.

“Michael?”

“You don’t need hands. You got such a clever mouth. So let’s see how you manage when it’s got something else to keep it busy.” Mike sat back and threw one long leg over an arm of the chair. The lamplight allowed him to see the flare of arousal in Peter’s eyes. Then Mike couldn’t see them, because Peter’s face was in his crotch, nuzzling, and Peter’s teeth were on the tab of Mike’s straining zip, unfastening, and Peter’s nose in his waistband, easing the fly button open. His actions made Mike’s erect cock spring free and Peter took it straight down.

Took it right to the back of his throat, as swift and deep and dirty as Mike had been imagining, watching Peter over the dinner table, seeing those graceful hands gesticulate, illustrating some point in something he told one of the neighbours, and picturing them on him, when Mike got him alone. He grabbed out at Peter’s head, intending to guide him, steady him—he really did—but found he was holding Peter hard to him, closing his fingers tightly through that silky hair…exerting pressure.

He waited a second to see if this was too hard, too much, but Peter gave no sign of needing to ease off or stop, so Mike didn’t, filling Peter’s clever mouth right to the back of his throat. He knew he was, could feel it, could watch Peter working to manage the restriction to his airway it caused, could see the muscles of that long column that was Peter’s neck rippling as he struggled against choking.

This was low-down and dirty. No, Peter had been right about the use of the passive voice. It was a get-out clause, a way to make it seem no one was responsible. And here _Mike_ was in charge. _Mike_ was being nasty, holding Peter hard by the back of the head and blatantly, deliberately, fucking his throat. Acknowledging ownership like that staggered Mike and he fought to slow down, to go easier, but having this beautiful man between his legs, pleasuring him _at his mercy_ broke any restraint he might have had.

He bucked his hips, working his cock deeper, and when Peter looked up at him with eyes that were a more tawny gold than usual thanks to the tears sheening them, Mike’s heart stuttered. The sight and sounds of Peter there, like that, might have made Mike pause, but didn’t make him stop holding Peter’s head and fucking his face. “Peter,” he gasped, on the sudden realization that though _he_ was seated and Peter, hands bound, on his knees in front of him, he was Peter’s captive. Peter was the one setting the pace, bobbing his head, flicking his tongue, applying the pressure, controlling the depth to which he swallowed Mike.

And damn if his understanding of that unspoken contest, that battle for dominance, didn’t have Mike ramming harder, slamming into Peter, fighting to thrust Peter’s head to meet the short hard movements of Mike’s hips. That Peter knew what was happening was clear to Mike from his actions, the extra-perfect constriction all around his cock, and now the vibrations along it from where Peter moaned deep in his throat.

The feel of that was all it took to speed Mike to climax, one which took over his entire body, stringing him out and up into one huge, hard, hot pulse he poured down Peter’s throat, until Peter, pulling himself from Mike, and also pulling his wrists free from their bonds, used his clever, long-fingered hands to finish Mike off. Not his mouth—Peter was no longer sucking or swallowing, but stroking, pumping, forcing the bursts of release…to bathe his own face.

Mike had never seen anything like it. Peter’s gorgeous face was turned up, his eyes closed and mouth open…and dripping with Mike’s hot cum. It robbed Mike of words, leaving him only able to stare as Peter’s amber eyes slowly opened and a pink tongue came even more slowly from between those wet lips to lick. Mike thought he made some sort of noise, eventually, centuries later, when fat, still-warm globs dripped from Peter’s chin and Mike could do nothing but stare into Peter’s eyes, feeling the sensation with him.

“Jesus Christ, Pete!” he finally managed, his voice hoarse, although he didn’t remember screaming. Maybe it was just dry. “You…that…”

“What?” An innocent-seeming Peter emerged from behind the towel he’d wiped off with. Mike had a sly jolt of satisfaction on hearing the rasp to Peter’s voice and seeing the slight shake to his hands. He needed Peter to be as affected as he was.

“_What?_” Mike repeated, incredulous. “_That!_”

“You’re the one who took me to see that movie.” Peter supported himself on the arm of the chair to stand. “And the sequel.”

“It was just called _Blow Job_! And _Blow Job #2_! It didn’t actually show anything—it was art house.” As Mike had discovered at the screening. Now, he eyed Peter, wondering if having taken him to the West Hollywood porn cinema had given him any ideas. “And if I find out you went back to the Vista to see any…_nastier_ skinflicks…without me—or, oh God, with Micky, I’ll—”

“Can’t make you no answer there, Mikey,” Peter replied, in a perfect Micky imitation.

Ooh, the smirk on Peter’s face. Mike stood, ignoring his weakened knees, and pulled Peter to him to kiss the smug right off him. He stroked Peter’s bangs from his reddened face and whispered against Peter’s swollen lips. “Now you’ve taken the edge of for me, let me give you my thanks in return. You must need to come real bad, I guess.” He knew how getting him off turned Peter on even more.

“Oh, I’m coasting.” Peter grinned. “I rubbed an easy one out while you were playing around with that vibrating belt massager in the other en-suite bathroom. You’re like Mr. Willis—love your gadgets.”

Mike wouldn’t blush. “So you took care of yourself, huh? Means you’re good for a while and I…can take my time with you.”

“What…have you got in mind?” Peter sounded wary, probably after reading the expression on Mike’s face.

“Oh, play time.” Mike undid Peter’s shirt buttons, revealing his tan chest an inch at a time before stripping the garment from him. He shivered as Peter returned the favor, ruffling his fingertips through Mike’s hair. “After all, this room is full of gadgets…”

Peter studied the headboard with its dials and switches for the wall-mounted entertainment center, the coffee maker on the counter under the window, his face puzzled.

“And appliances,” Mike finished. Finished undressing too. “We were talking earlier about things we’re thankful for?” Things and not people, because that was Peter. Always. “Well, I’m thankful this room has an icebox.”

“It does?” Naked now, Peter made for the bed, but watched Mike.

“It sure does. And I’m also grateful Toby got stuff for a kid’s party. Including…freezies.”

“Freez—popsicles?”

“No. No sticks. Freezer pops.” Mike showed Peter the colorful plastic tray he’d taken from the kitchen and stored here, giving him a good look at its contents. The small objects’ range of colors and shapes made them look like those blocks kids played with, but while these were just as small and inviting, they were made of ice: a rainbow of different fruit juice flavors frozen into a variety of shapes. He smiled when even just the sight had Peter shivering. Oh, this was gonna be some fun.

“Oh!” Peter nodded in understanding. “This is revenge for what I did to you with that ice, in the hotel that time, isn’t it!”

“Hey there, shotgun. Payback’s a fightin’ talk word. Just be glad I ain’t tying you to the bed, like ya did with me that night.”

“With this headboard?” Peter touched one of the in-set controls. “You wouldn’t dare. You might activate the drawbridge, or the moat.”

“You done talking? O do I have to gag you?” Mike inquired, setting down the container on top of a folded towel on the nightstand.

“For what?” Peter lay, propped against the pillows, easing one hand down to his dick to give it an almost negligent tug. He lifted a lazy hand and licked a smear of precum from his fingers, his eyes taunting Mike’s.

“And you’re still being bratty!” Mike yelped, loving it. He pulled Peter flat, and that his hands were chilled from holding the fresh-from-freezing plastic was evident when Peter rippled in response. _Good._ “I’ll start with your favorite.”

“My…oh.” Peter watched Mike select an orange sphere, that was actually orange flavored, Mike learned when he placed it between his lips. He bent low to kiss Peter and let him taste the treat. But only for a second, because Mike’s true destination was Peter’s nipple, which he sucked with the ball of ice in his mouth, to make the nub of flesh redden and thicken. Peter’s squeak, one he tried to smother, was Mike’s reward.

“Well, look at that.” Mike sat back a little to watch the gorgeous sight of Peter’s dick filling, to rise firm against Peter’s belly button. He switched the ice he was holding in place to the other nipple—wouldn’t do to make it feel left out. “But I’m getting tired of orange.” He dumped the remains of sphere onto the towel and squeezed a second ice shape free of the container.

This was a triangle, some sort of berry flavour, he discovered, taking one of its points between his teeth. “Incoming,” he warned, bending to kiss Peter, and ease the base of the triangle between his lips, for him to suck on at the same time Mike was. Again he pulled back, because he loved to see Peter’s cheeks hollowing and throat working as he sucked the ice and swallowed the cold water he turned it into. Jesus, Peter’s dick was all the way up now, smearing precum against his belly, and Mike’s was trying to stir again, despite the fantastic head Peter had just given him.

“Looks good,” Mike husked, pointing to Peter’s lips, stained a darker shade by the ice’s juice or temperature. The tone went beautifully with the dark pink color Mike delighted in causing to flush Peter’s chest and neck during sex. Like now. He went to remove the piece of ice from between Peter’s lips, but Peter curled his tongue over it and sucked it into his mouth, to crunch and swallow the remnants.

“Oh, no worries. I got more…” Mike this time eased out a rectangle shape, long and slim enough to roll down Peter’s ribs to his hips, down one side then changing hands to roll it up the other. He threw this onto the towel. “Better clean up,” he said, lowering himself to lick up the drips of lemon-lime he’d left when he’d played. Peter had kept still when Mike had used the cold, smooth ice, but now Mike’s warmer, rougher tongue had him writhing, his muscles shivering and his skin pebbling.

“You’re doing good,” he praised. “I got some I…prepared.” Had crushed, really, so one part of the tray was filled with shards and chips of ice. Mike ignored the cold biting at his fingers to scoop this out, into both hands, to cup one to Peter’s balls and wrap the other around his dick. Now Peter reacted, with a noise that was half-shout half-scream and very gratifying to Mike’s ears. Peter’s body thrust upward, his cock straining in Mike’s hand. Mike let him, let him twist and moan, getting off himself on the sight and sound.

He cupped harder, making the tiny ice crystals crunch against Peter’s tightening balls, and worked Peter’s hard cock with the other hand, shards of melting ice adhering to that too. The head of Peter’s cock was a deep red, when it emerged from the tight fist of Mike’s hand. And the noise Peter was making… Thinking Peter must be suffering, by now, with his eyes anguished, almost, and every muscle strained like that, Mike slid his hand around, moving it from Peter’s sac toward his ass, stroking and sliding an ice-cold finger around Peter’s hole, then slipping it in. Just a little, the barest tickle, a mere promise, but it was enough to make Peter scream out a non-human sound and his cock erupt, pulsing out white jets of cum. The bed shook under him with the force of his climax.

And Mike wanted a taste, getting his mouth around Peter to suck, curiosity about the melting fruit-flavored ice mixed with Peter’s cum making him lick and swallow, and even crunch a few tiny chips of still-unmelted ice. Peter’s normal taste adulterated by the thin, chemical fruit tang was strange and Mike, his own arousal climbing, lay with Peter, his head on his stomach, to ride out the high, until the last shudder and tremor.

“You don’t have snow in Texas.” Peter still panted, but had gotten his breath back. “But now you know what it’s like to catch the first snowflake of winter on your tongue!”

“Jesus, Pete—” Mike started to protest, only to jump at the loud buzzer going off right where they lay. “Ow!” he cried, rolling them both from the bed when he felt an electric shock.

“What the hell?” cried Peter, rubbing his ass. Seemed he’d gotten one too.

Mike slammed his hand against the dials on the headboard and shut off the noise. “Oh my Lord.” He pointed. “_Wee Alert_? What in the world is that?”

“Oh, one of my brothers had that!” Peter exclaimed. “Conditioned response training. It’s got aluminum foil pads separated by a sheet and connected to the alarm, so when drops of urine hit them, they complete the circuit and cut the current to the pads, which sounds a buzzer and gives a mild shock.”

“_Mild?_” Mike scoffed. “And I guess not just drops of urine.” He looked from the bed to the tray of melted ice, some of which had dripped and trailed onto the sheet…along with other fluids. They were lucky it hadn’t set the alarm off earlier. “That guy sure loves his gadgets.”

Peter returned to the bed, carefully and slowly, Mike following. “It’s kinda conditioned my response a bit,” Mike confessed, giving his deflated cock a stroke. “And I’m just thankful that device was on its lowest setting.”

“I’m thankful I can get you…responsive again, really quickly.” Peter grinned.

“I’m thankful for your confidence. No, that ain’t right. Thankful for your abilities,” Mike replied. “Very thankful. Like, every morning and every night thankful.” He hugged Peter to him, tight. “And I’m thankful you came into my life. I’m thankful for you.”

“As I am for you,” Peter whispered, holding him just as tight. He clung to Mike until he had to shift to accommodate Mike’s swelling cock poking at him. He cupped Mike’s heavy sac. “And I promise not to make any kind of pun about you as well as _being_ thankful, _having_ a tankfull.”

“Babe, ya just did,” Mike groaned. But even Peter making the world’s worst pun didn’t make Mike love him any the less. Made him love Peter more, actually. And Peter knew it.


End file.
